


The one that wasn't a lucky charm

by Trojie



Series: Stories that aren't about cats [6]
Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Gen, M/M, Pining, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 20:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob's luck hasn't held. And fuck if One Two knows what he can do about that. Beta-read by the fabulous and fantastic Unvarnishedtale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The one that wasn't a lucky charm

Beep.

Click.

 _'Yeah?'_

 _'Hope you said your goodbyes last night.'_

 _'Fuck.'_

 _'Guess that's why he told you not to come.'_

 _'How do you know that?'_

 _'Told me, didn't he. Told me to let you know.'_

 _'Cheers.'_

 _'Not my fault ... listen, you gonna come round the Speeler tonight?'_

 _'Nothing else to do, do I?'_

 _'See you then, then.'_

 _'Yeah.'_

 _'One Two?'_

 _'Yeah?'_

 _'Two years, man. Just two years. You've been inside. He'll be fine.'_

 _'Yeah.'_

Click.

Click.

***

One Two has been inside, oh yes. Two years, so he knows how it feels. He knows how he dealt with it, how bits of him had to shift behind his eyes into walls and hiding places so that he'd fit. It changed him - strengthened the parts of him that he could use inside, while the things - habits, emotions, behaviours - he couldn't use withered away.

It'll change Bob.

And shit happens in prison. One Two managed to avoid most of it because he's big, and fairly quiet, and he can hurt people if he wants to and he looks like it's more of an option than it really is. The accent doesn't hurt either, makes him sound vicious if he uses it right. Bit of an asset.

Bob's not like that.

And Bob is … well. Plenty of that in prison. One Two said that once. You'll probably love it.

Hah. He overheard stuff in prison, he looked away, and he's not stupid enough to think that the stuff that he heard and didn't see was all that was going on. He knows different. He hopes that when Bob hears shit, he doesn't remember what One Two said. And if people want to be overheard with Bob, he hopes Bob doesn't let them.

He hopes Bob has a choice.

***

One Two wants to call Bob about six months in. It's a sad little want that he doesn't give in to.

He toys with visiting. He doesn't.

He picks up the odd girl. It's fine. They're good. It takes the edge off.

The realisation that there's an edge to take off, that he's waiting for something (for Bob), sends him angrily to the bottom of a bottle. There's nothing good waiting for him down there, just bad fucking memories and an even stronger need to hear Bob's voice.

He calls Mumbles instead, because Mumbles can answer.

'Yeah, One Two?'

'I want to visit Bob.'

'It's fucking 3am. You can't visit Bob.'

'No, not now, you idiot. Later. I dunno.'

'Are you askin' me if it's a good idea, or if I'll come with you?'

'I don't want you to come,' One Two says immediately, without thinking about it. Not that he can think much right now. He's a bit drunk. Yes.

'Didn't think so.' Fucking Mumbles. Thinks he knows everything. Always fucking right. One Two doesn't know whether he loves him or hates him for it, but that's Mumbles all over. 'I think Bob'd want to see you,' he adds, but One Two gets this sense that there's more to it than that, so he says nothing and lets the silence grow. Eventually Mumbles says, like he's been debating whether to say it at all, 'But I dunno if it's a good idea, mate. He's in. You're out. Let him do his time.'

One Two remembers Mumbles didn't want visitors when he was banged up, and didn't come see One Two, either. But he also remembers that Bob came to see him.

'I'm going tomorrow,' he says.

'Suit yourself,' says Mumbles. 'G'night, mate.'

'Night,' says One Two, and hangs up, and rolls over, feeling a bit better.

He doesn't go the next day, because he's fucking hungover. This is not a surprise. But he does go eventually, and that might be.

***

The prison uniform looks awful on Bob, but that's what prison uniforms are for, and One Two can't tell if Bob would look any better out of it, anyway. His eyes are heavy-looking, like he's not getting enough sleep, and he's maybe lost a bit of weight, or maybe just reshaped himself with prison work and prison exercise-regime and prison food. Either's a possibility.

'One Two,' he says quietly.

'Bob.'

'Good to see you,'

'You too, man, you too.'

This is the worst fuckin' idea One Two's ever had. He wants to tell Bob about the boys, and the jobs, and the gossip, but he can't, because this is Her Majesty's prison system - everything will be recorded and kept and watched. He isn't even comfortable saying people's names. 'Boys miss you,' he says, and Bob nods.

'Miss them, too.'

They sit across from each other at a tiny table, and it's mostly just staring. There's eight inches of space between their hands - Bob's flat on the table except for that crooked little finger of his, One Two's curled into fists.

One Two wants to take Bob's hand. He doesn't. Eventually visiting time is over, and it's one-armed hearty-clap-on-the-back-man-hug-time. One Two wants to hold Bob close, and can't, and doesn't. Weird, to want something and not have it and know that not having it is in everyone's best interests. Maybe this is why Bob apologised so fast and hoarse after he came out to One Two.

Bob pulls back after the carefully measured ten seconds they can be seen to touch, and nods, like a dismissal. But his back's straight and his eyes are clear. He's strong, is Bob.

One Two goes - gets in his car and drives away from the prison, and is glad that there hasn't been any rain in a week because it means he doesn't even leave tyre-tracks. He doesn't go back. What would the point be? Bob'll get out. And when he does ...

 _When he does,_ One Two thinks, _I still won't have a fucking clue what this is._


End file.
